


In Every Way Silver

by sherlockloves



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-04 23:09:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12781644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockloves/pseuds/sherlockloves
Summary: Anon prompt: After the war, Draco notices that Potter likes to spend his time tucked away in a back corner of the library. Oh, he thinks that no one had seen him going there, having used his Invisibility Cloak to get to the corner. But Draco's always had the uncanny ability to always be aware of Potter in a room.





	In Every Way Silver

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at prose fiction (let alone fanfiction specifically*) in many years, so... I hope it’s okay! And of course, I’m still accepting prompts if anyone has them: slytherinsincerity.tumblr.com/ask
> 
> *Prose fanfiction. My script on here in obviously fictitious. XD

After the battle, Hogwarts felt impossibly quiet— an observation Harry relayed to Ron and Hermione one morning over breakfast.  
  
“Well yes, Harry, that makes sense,” Hermione said pointedly. “A lot of people died.”  
  
“Never one to euphemize, are you?” remarked Ron.  
  
“Aside from that,” she continued, “most people just aren’t ready to come back yet.”  
  
Indeed, the Grand Hall was nearly empty. It didn’t help that the castle was badly damaged. The resulting chill reminded Harry of the hush just after a snowstorm—  the utter quiet that made one realize there were ever background noises to begin with. This, too, was a silence that transcended its practical cause. Rather than hearing the usual emblems of large empty spaces— creaking stairs, wind whipping around corridors— he was surrounded by a silence that seemed to come from within himself.  
  
Plenty of things were off about him lately. Until recently, he didn’t know he could wake up in a panic, sweating and struggling for air, without feeling his forehead burn. He’d never known that fear could feel so real when there was no reason to be afraid.  
  
“You didn’t kill Voldemort.” It was as if Hermione had read his mind, but missed nearly all of his thoughts. “He killed himself, essentially. And of course you needn’t feel bad either way.”  
  
There was something that felt like guilt within him, and something that felt like panic. But, lost to any meaningful cause for such emotions, he mainly felt empty.  
  
As if on cue, the hall became slightly less empty. The loud rap of a swift gait approaching the entrance was refreshing for Harry, until a streak of platinum hair came into view. Hermione raised her eyebrows, whilst Ron groaned in disgust.  
  
“Imagine showing your face here,” he said, “after all he’s done.”  
  
Given that Harry didn’t feel strongly about anything at the moment, he felt he may as well be positive.  
  
“I wouldn’t want to be with his family, either.”  
  
Hermione patted his hand, whilst Ron looked at him incredulously.  
  
“Are you serious, mate? How can you have any sympathy for him?”  
  
“I think it’s very nice of you to promote unity,” Hermione said, though the look on her face suggested she secretly sided with Ron.  
  
All the same, Draco sat at the far corner of the hall, as if there were still House tables— or a House to sit with, for that matter. He kept his eyes down and ate quickly. He looked just as brooding as he had for the past two years, Harry thought, and twice as alone.  
  
***  
  
The way his friends had looked at the Elder Wand still disturbed Harry.  He knew it wasn’t a flaw of theirs specifically. In the face of great power, most people would react that way. He hadn’t, of course, but maybe that came with owning the wand. Dumbledore never seemed to be overtaken by the might of the thing. Nor, it popped into his mind, had it seemed to affect Draco. Harry shoved this idea aside as quickly as he’d thought of it; it wasn’t the same. Odd thoughts like that seemed to intrude on his consciousness lately.  
  
Just after breakfast, unable to get the image of a solitary Draco off his mind, he’d remembered Narcissa’s hands against him— her desperate bid to save her son. If she was willing to abandon her loyalties to save Draco, to risk her life for him, could he be entirely bad? He then internally scolded himself for having such a bizarre idea. It was a mother’s unconditional love, that was all. It was the very reason Harry himself had survived past infancy. He did not register this as a parallel worthy of further thought. Instead, he shoved Malfoy off his mind by brute force. Between these cyclical thoughts, and emotions which shifted swiftly from apathy to panic and back, Harry craved a reprieve of some sort.  
  
One night, he woke up screaming enough times that even Ron grew snippy with him. Though he hadn’t determined where he would spend the night, Harry began to walk. As he descended the dormitory steps, he slipped his Invisibility Cloak over his shoulders. This wasn’t precisely necessary; everything was up in the air at Hogwarts these days. Professors doubled up on courses to replace their deceased colleagues; students didn’t truly know if a class was happening that day until they showed up. It was all so disorganized that he wondered why students were welcome to stay at all. It must have been a kindness to those who had no other home, such as Harry; those who wanted to move on with their lives as quickly as possible, like Hermione; and those who weren’t ready to face the full breadth of what they’d lost, like Ron. In any case, he doubted anyone would reprimand students for breaking curfew once they’d already been entrusted to act as soldiers. The cloak was more a security blanket of sorts.  
  
He continued to walk purposefully with no destination in mind, almost as if his feet were taking care of the matter for him. When he arrived at the library, he understood why it appealed to his subconscious. It was a hallmark of his earlier years at Hogwarts. He and his friends had scoured the shelves to find clues about matters that now seemed elementary. As pressing as these excursions were, they almost seemed— fun in comparison to recent events. It was as if researching Nicolas Flamel was all part of a fun little scavenger hunt. The sum of these adventures was far more somber. Even the Restricted section had no power to intimidate or entice him now. He slumped into a corner, and allowed his memories to soothe him. Eventually, he slept.  
  
It continued on like this each night. He left for the library after the other boys were asleep, and allowed his mind to wander unfiltered until sleep claimed him. He inevitably woke up early, due the hard floor or a nightmare, and crept back to the dormitory. He had never experienced such regular intervals of time free from intrusion. At the Dursleys, he was essentially an indentured servant; afterwards, he entered a world where everyone knew his life story. For the first time, he felt he had a private life. It was nice, honestly. Still, his disassociation from his peers went unabated. The otherwise blessed solitude was evermore encroached upon by a peripheral loneliness.  
  
***  
  
A week or so into this habit, he awoke to a piece of paper crunching beneath him. It really was paper, too— not parchment, but standard A4 white muggle paper. He replaced his glasses and whispered a nearly inaudible “lumos.” The fact that the note appeared to be written with a typewriter, not a computer, made it somehow more bizarre.  
  
_Harry,_  
  
_You’ve done great things that have changed the wizarding world forever. I don’t mean that as another fawning fan. On the contrary, I think you’re insufferable in nearly every way. But, despite your inconsiderate disposition, you’re a better man than most could ever hope to be. I don’t expect I’ll get the chance to tell you this face-to-face. It seemed right to tell you._  
  
Harry was baffled. After a brief flashback to Tom Riddle’s diary, he reminded himself that this was a simple muggle object. But who could have written it— and how did they know where he was?  
  
Even in jest, Hermione was unlikely to pay him a backhanded compliment at such a sensitive time. Altogether unsure of himself, he casually broached the subject with Ron the next morning.  
  
“Thanks for the note. I had a good laugh over it.”  
  
Ron, barely awake, gave him a puzzled look.  
  
“What note?”  
  
“Oh, I hadn’t snapped out of a dream yet. Never mind.”  
  
And, perhaps because he had far heavier things on his mind than apparently-imaginary notes, Ron forgot about the conversation faster than he fell back to sleep.  
  
Harry went through the motions— forcing himself to eat despite ever-present nausea, going to classes that intermittently took place or didn’t, keeping contact with Aurors intending to employ him after the school year. All the while, he was preoccupied by the identity of the typist. It had to be someone muggle-born, obviously, as they’d used a typewriter and printer paper. As diluted as the student body was in the aftermath of the war, there weren’t so few pupils that the investigation was easy. He wasn’t about to involve Hermione. As helpful as she was, her nerves were frayed enough. She always complained about how far behind she was in her studying. Secretly, Harry was glad something as familiar as academia was around to keep her mind off the war. As for himself, he couldn’t help but notice that he’d had fewer nightmares lately. This new mystery had presented him with a distraction. Still, he didn’t exactly enjoy the thrill of the chase. He had an intense desire to know, as quickly as possible, who would speak to him with such familiarity— and why they seemed impervious his Invisibility Cloak.  
  
It never once occurred to Harry that the one person he’d _always_ suspected, _should_ be suspected.  
  
*  
  
Finally, he left a note of his own:  
  
_Stranger,_  
  
_Is my “disposition” so “inconsiderate” that it rivals slipping notes under people while they sleep?_  
  
Not having the convenience of a typewriter to disguise his handwriting, he hoped the note wouldn’t be discovered by anyone but the sender. He folded it up into as tiny a square as he could, and left it behind in the morning. He had second thoughts during his classes, and slipped away to retrieve it during lunch. But, the note was already gone. The next morning, he awoke to another one.  
  
_Harry,_  
  
_On the contrary, I didn’t put the note underneath you. You must have tossed about in the night. Quite risky, really, trusting an invisibility cloak to obscure you while you sleep._  
  
  
_Stranger,_

 _Is that how you knew I was in here? Was my foot sticking out or something?_  
  
  
_Harry,_  
  
_No, don’t be daft. If I’d spotted one of your holey socks in this library, I’d be too disgusted to ever touch a book again._  
  
  
_Stranger,_  
  
_For someone so keen to escape books, you sure like to frequent libraries. So what was it, then? Was I snoring?_  
  
  
_Harry,_  
  
_If I explained it to you, in great detail, sounding out each word very slowly, you still wouldn’t be able to wrap your head around it. Though, the thought of you snoring is fairly cute._  
  
  
_Stranger,_  
  
_If the thought of me snoring is so adorable, why don’t you join me and see if I start?_  
  
  
_Harry,_  
  
_I said “cute,” not “adorable.” I’d say you need to be brought down a peg, but given your choice of sleeping arrangements, you’re clearly struggling to keep up in your classes. Your knowledge of your own ineptitude is enough for me._  
  
  
The notes were playful— flirty, really— and a nice break from the laudatory treatment he’d received from most of the wizarding world. He found himself grinning as he fell asleep each night. He chided himself for developing a crush on someone without knowing who that someone was— but the shame never took.   
  
  
_Stranger,_  
  
_Ha, ha. I’m not sleeping here because I’m up late studying._  
  
  
_Harry,_  
  
_I know. You’re here because you want to be alone— not actually alone, but apart from all the people who don’t understand what you’ve gone through. At the same tine, you feel guilty. You know that others have gone through a lot as well. You think that you have no right to feel tortured. You didn’t lose your life, as so many others did. You feel responsible for their deaths, even though you know logically that you did the best you could. You think that there were better wizards than you— Dumbledore, maybe even Snape— who deserved to live more than you did. You’ve felt the wrath of a creature that contained more hatred in itself than anyone had before, or will again. And so, without any sort of curse or bewitchment, you’re tormented by nightmares. When you feel anything at all, it’s a guilt which threatens to consume you, yet you prefer it to feeling nothing._  
  
  
_Stranger,_  
  
_How did you know?_  
  
  
_Harry,_  
  
_I feel the same way._  
  
  
_Stranger,_  
  
_Well, can’t we at least keep each other company, then? If we’re going through the same thing, won’t it be at least a little comforting to confide in each other?_  
  
  
_Harry,_  
  
_You don’t understand. I feel the same way. I’m not in the same situation— at all._  
  
  
_Stranger,_  
  
_It sounds like you are._  
  
  
_Harry,_  
  
_You really are inept. Meeting me would not help._  
  
  
_Stranger,_  
  
_But you know I’m nothing special. I don’t mean that in a bad way, it’s just that everyone else thinks I’m The Saviour._  
  
  
_Harry,_  
  
_Just because I don’t idolize you doesn’t mean you’re not a saviour. You definitely saved me._  
  
  
_Stranger,_  
  
_Then I guess, you owe me, huh?_  
  
  
_Harry,_  
  
_Damn it. Yes, I’ll meet you. But only because I owe it to you. Then you can go on hating me in peace._  
  
  
This seemed like an odd choice of language— just because this person didn’t _personally_ kill Voldemort, didn’t mean Harry would dislike them— but he was too giddy to think much of it. He practically floated through the day, brushing off Ron and Hermione’s pestering about why he was so happy all of a sudden. He felt certain he’d be too excited to fall asleep that night, but somehow he managed it. When he awoke to the sound of a book being smacked on a table, he found himself in the company of the last person he’d expect.  
  
“Malfoy?!”  
  
Though Harry was still in his Invisibility Cloak, Draco was somehow able to look right into his eyes. His own gleamed with the same cocky stare as always, and his lips formed his characteristic shit-eating grin. Harry wasn’t sure if he was more or less infuriated by the fact that Draco _hadn’t_ worn such an expression in quite some time.  
  
He almost blurted out, “I’m supposed to be meeting someone,” but the fact that Malfoy saw him was proof positive of just who he was supposed to meet. It was nonetheless an unpleasant turn of events. He threw off the obviously-futile invisibility cloak. He’d gained enough sense to not chastise Draco for feigning to share his experiences— the letters made it clear that Malfoy made no such presumption. Instead, to his own shock, the first thing Harry asked was “How do you have a _typewriter_?”  
  
Seemingly oblivious to how inconsequential this was, Draco became quite excited. In fact, for the first time since Harry met him, Draco _beamed_.  
  
“Oh, shit! You have to see this. I’ll be right back.”  
  
Harry sat nonplussed in the corner, feeling quite certain that Draco would arrive with fresh flunkies to pulverize him. Clearly, this was nothing but a cruel prank. Having lost whatever sense of self-preservation he he’d previously held, Harry waited for the inevitable.  
  
But when Malfoy returned, he was alone. He carried what looked like a large square briefcase. He knelt down— awfully close, Harry thought— and opened the top. Inside was an antique typewriter.  
  
“There’s no magic keeping it still or anything,” Malfoy raved. “It just fits into these little metal slots, and you can push this button to take it out of the case.” It _was_ sort of ingenious that something so outdated could be kept still with nothing more than a strategically studded case.However, it was not nearly as entrancing a technology as Malfoy seemed to think.  
  
“It’s called a Remmington Noiseless Portable,” a still-glowing Draco shared.  
  
“I can read,” Harry said, gesturing towards the machine’s gold letters.  
  
“Could’ve fooled me,” said Draco. It was oddly comforting to see that their dynamic had not entirely changed.  
  
“Noiseless Portable. So, it’s silent? Is that how you typed those notes at my bedside?”  
  
“I will have you know that I do not lurk around your sleeping form. I merely pop in briefly to deliver my correspondence. And no, you absolutely would have woken up,” said Draco, who clacked at the keys to demonstrate.”  
  
“So, noiseless for its time, then.”  
  
“And equally as portable. It’s actually quite heavy.”  
  
“Have you considered using a computer?”  
  
“Well, I could hardly sneak a computer anywhere! They’re as big as a whole room!”  
  
Harry smirked at Malfoy’s very limited understanding of muggle technology. He would correct him another time; he didn’t have the heart to put him in his place. This was the first time he’d seen him vulnerable and happy at the same time. He didn’t want to jinx it, so to speak.  
  
By holding off on insulting him, Harry began to see the typewriter through Draco’s eyes. Of course— far from a Weasley, or a member of any wizarding family for that matter, Draco would have been entirely shut off from knowledge of muggles’ better qualities. This must be huge for him.  
  
“Your parents don’t know you have this, do you? Or are they feeling that guilty?”  
  
Draco’s face fell for the briefest of moments. Then, he gave out a laugh— self-effacing, but genuine. So, he really was the person his letters suggested: a bully evolved, someone who could take a barb and shoot one back.  
  
“They’re the same as always. I mean, obviously they’re on… a different path now, but our relationship is the same as ever. They love me and they don’t act like it.” He turned to face Harry. “Have you ever gotten an immense amount of cruelty, and an immense amount of love, from the very same people?”  
  
“No,” Harry said, though a couple of faces popped into his mind afterward.  
  
“It’s hard to react to. The extent to which you should distance yourself from people like that… especially when it’s your family. And when, frankly, you don’t know who or what you’d have left if you simply cut ties.” Draco was suddenly struck with panic. “No, I don’t mean it like that! I mean, I wouldn’t ever do anything like… the things I did… again. If they ever tried to manipulate me into doing something evil, I know for sure I’d rather die on the street than have a relationship with my family.  
  
The interpretation that embarrassed Draco had not occurred to Harry.  In fact, he felt more comfortable than he had in years.  
  
“Relax. If the people who rescued me from my horrid relatives were dark wizards, I might have followed their lead. I’d have no way of knowing there was a better path. After all, I was just a kid. As were you.”  
  
“Thank you,” Draco said, tight-lipped and formal. He continued to hammer away at the keys, clearly uncomfortable with such unconditional acceptance. To lighten the mood, Harry attempted another playful jab. “The only way in which you’ve disappointed me tonight is by not being a cute girl. I’d gotten my hopes up that a warrior witch would show up.”  
  
Draco’s face fell again— and it stayed fallen. This time, the laugh that followed was bereft of all sincerity. Harry perceived Draco to be half-listening— focused intently on his typing. Harry stared into space. The silence was unbearably awkward, given that he’d freshly befriended his sworn enemy. Apparently, the first topic of conversation in such scenarios was _typewriters_. Then what? “I’m sorry I permanently disfigured you?” “It’s okay, you were just saving the world.” “Care for a game of chess, then?”  
  
But soon, Harry was no longer staring into space. His gaze hadn’t switched direction; his view had become lucid. Draco’s impossibly blonde hair reflected lamplight flickering on the table above them. One strand fell into his face. This breach in perfection made the severity of his style all the more endearing. His grey eyes were unblemished by a speckle of any other color— that had to be rare, right? An iris made up entirely of one color, each spot barely deviating in shade from the next?— and his lashes were so richly black that his pale skin provided contrast. He was, in many ways, a physical opposite of Harry— and in every way, silver.  
  
Harry broke out of his reverie.  
  
“I completely forgot to ask you—” Draco was still clattering away— typing gibberish, as it turned out. Harry touched his hands to still them. Draco turned quickly, looking startled and confused. _He really does concentrate deeply_ , Harry assumed. “I forgot to ask you,” he continued, removing his hand without a second thought as to Draco’s expression, “how did you know I was here?”  
  
“Ah.” Malfoy replaced the lid over his typewriter, and pushed the case off to the side, It occurred to Harry that the answer was more complex than he’d anticipated. “Snape taught me.”  
  
Harry threw his head back and laughed.  
  
“I _knew_ it! There were so many times I thought he could see me through that cloak. But why didn’t he get me in trouble over it?” He rested his back against the wall and smiled at the ceiling. “I’ll never truly figure out that man.”  
  
“Probably not,” Malfoy replied, his voice equal parts curtness and restraint.  
  
“I’m sorry,” said Harry. “I’ve lost so many people that I don’t know how to react to their memories anymore. I forgot he was such an important mentor to you.” _Probably a better father figure than the one you’ve still got_ , thought Harry. Then again, the competition wasn’t stiff.  
  
“It’s fine,” said Malfoy. “You’ve restored his name more than I ever could. As for seeing through invisibility cloaks, though— it’s not as simple as that.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“No.” Malfoy held a steady tone, yet Harry sensed that he was acutely uncomfortable with the subject. His cool demeanor was far more transparent one-on-one.  
  
“You don’t _actually_ owe me,” said Harry, recalling their letters. “If you don’t feel comfortable, you don’t have to talk about it, or even stay here.”  
  
Malfoy heaved an exasperated sigh.  
  
“As we’ve just established, I no longer have someone I feel comfortable being vulnerable around. That mantle falls to you, Potter,” he said, gently poking him in the ribs.  
  
“Thank _god_ ,” said Harry, “because I _really_ think it’s important to know that kind of thing for when I’m an Auror.”  
  
Draco finally smiled again.  
  
“So ambitious! I’m surprised you weren’t placed in Slytherin.”  
  
“Funny story about that…” Harry leaned one arm against the wall, wanting to drink in Draco’s next reaction. He felt himself smiling with embarrassment, and— to his surprise— a certain degree of pride.  
  
“No!” gasped Draco, his own smile baring its own curious mix of scandal and amusement.  
  
“Yes. Details to come.”  
  
Newly confident, Draco continued.  
  
“Snape never mentioned seeing you, so I can only conjecture. He may have had some idea that you were there— depending on how attuned he was to his environment, and how much he’d picked up on your mannerisms.”  
  
“He did watch me like a hawk from the moment he met me,” Harry recalled. “Which is in no way a joke about his nose.” Draco did chuckle at that one.  
  
“It isn’t just about observing mannerisms, but it can help. The way a person moves their arms when they walk, the exact way they distribute their weight when their foot hits the ground… even if there’s no noise involved per se, someone very familiar with you can perhaps since a shift in the air around them.”  
  
“So why not just march over and drag me to McGonagall’s?”  
  
“There’s a difference between perceiving that something’s off, and being at all certain of the cause. Perhaps he had an inkling you were there, but he wasn’t sure— certainly not sure enough to go about grasping at thin air.”  
  
“But you.” Harry again felt heavy silence fall around him. This time, the hush was not eerie; it was profound. It isolated that precise moment in time— marked it as crucial to the way each of their lives would unfold. Yet there was to be no thought of the future, nor to the past, until that moment had been spent.  
  
“Right.” Draco shifted a bit, but continued. “Unless you’re an extraordinarily powerful wizard, in which case you can literally see through Invisibility Cloaks, knowing the precise position of a cloaked individual can’t be achieved by mere perception. It’s a matter of a deep, personal connection. Snape had some sort of deep feelings about your parents, right?”  
  
“Something like that,” grumbled Harry.  
  
 “I guess that could have rubbed off on you, to an extent. All I know for sure is that it takes a profound, long-lasting, extraordinary feeling about a person to see them beneath a Cloak without actually seeing them.” There was a deep pause, which Draco seemed impatient to end. “So, when I met you— okay, the second time I met you— and you rejected me, I’d never felt so embarrassed. That led to years of childish resentment. Humbling you was practically an obsession.”  
  
Draco began to speak faster— willing his mouth to outrun his pride.  
  
“It’s all been very muddled, and there were other things, like when we had detention in the Forbidden Forest, I was a bit… distracted of course, but I noticed you had kind of a warm presence, and a certain subtle smell, too.”  
  
Draco had run out of things to ramble about, leaving Harry to piece together what little he could glean from it. Detention in the Forbidden Forest— when they were _First Years_? So it was long-lasting, but all the same…  
  
“I don’t really understand. This is a fairly rare gift, right? So even if your feelings were somewhat consistent, I don’t see how they were _profound_ , or _extraordinary_ —“  
  
Harry was cut short by Draco’s lips on his. By the time he realized what was happening, his hands were already pressed against Draco’s cheeks. He leaned in, lapping gently at the other boy’s lips until he felt them part. Their tongues moved slowly against each other. They savored each new movement, as if they’d always known their rivalry would culminate in this way. They had a natural, instant rhythm. It was entirely free of the awkward trial and error most couples experience at the beginning of their first shared kiss. Harry moaned into Draco’s mouth, and refused to be embarrassed by the reaction. When Draco mirrored his vocalization a moment later, the hum from his lips, coupled with the sweetness of his voice, was almost achingly satisfying.  
  
They must have been at it for at least a few minutes before Draco pulled away, but it was still far too soon.  
  
“Sorry,” he said, “I’m not good with words.”  
  
“Then shut up,” Harry said, cupping him behind his head, pulling him in again. After a moment they laughed, but still managed to continue the kiss. A feeling of joy— of being entirely unfettered by the world around him, caring only about the man whose lips were locked on his— filled Harry’s entire body. He pulled Draco on top of him, embracing him tightly, wanting to feel their bodies flush together. Having accomplished this, he rolled him onto the ground, deepening the kiss, each of them moaning with less and less inhibition. Harry stopped only to trail to kisses down Draco’s absurdly gorgeous neck— “Are you carved out of fucking marble?” he mused— nipping and licking every so often. Draco squirmed beneath him, releasing the most delicate little noises. This drove Harry mad; he needed to look into the eyes of the boy whose pleasure was so gratifying.  
  
He looked down at Draco, admiring his lips, his cheeks, those impossibly gray eyes. They each breathed fast and deep as they locked eyes. Their physical response to each other had carried the weight of their passion thus far. This was not an unpleasant experience even on its own. Now, having paused to admire each other, the full weight of their feelings dawned on them. Harry saw Draco, the only person that knew what he was going through, the man who did everything he could to make him feel less alone, despite his assumption that he’d mortify himself in the process. Draco saw Harry, a Christ figure with a moral compass he longed to have but never would, who made Draco feel such imperfection was okay. Harry, the object of his affection for as long as he could remember— first a schoolboy crush, then a sincere yet tragic admiration, and lately a love that acknowledged and embraced all flaws.  
  
Having recognized the magnitude of what they’d found in each other, their embrace became more desperate, their kisses faster, their sensations more acute. When Harry could think again, his first thought was that he’d be sleeping in the library every night for a long time to come. Draco had a four-post bed in mind, and a house to put it in— but that would come later.  
  
*  
  
“I have another question.”  
  
“Potterrr,” Draco whined, cuddling his head into Harry’s bare chest. “I’m so tired of talking.”  
  
Harry ran his hands down Draco’s back, warming his nearly luminescent skin. He embraced him gently, stretching his arms as wide as he could to cover the boy’s cool body.  There were things he still wanted to know, but he wanted to make Draco as comfortable as possible in the process.  
  
“So, have you seen me before this year— all this time?”  
  
Draco perked his head up a bit, looking into Harry’s eyes.  
  
“Well, that’s the funny thing. I didn’t at first.”  
  
“Maybe you just didn’t pass me.”  
  
“I did. Even without an Invisibility Cloak, I’m great at slinking around unseen. I recognized your smell. Of course, I didn’t know why it was there, but in retrospect I can assume.”  
  
“Well, first years aren’t capable of much emotional depth. You hadn’t known me for very long, either.”  
  
“There’s something else Snape used to say: ‘No matter what one’s feelings are, it is impossible to permeate the cloak unless one means the wearer absolutely no harm.’”  
  
Harry didn’t think Draco was ready to hear it, but that sounded like the distinction between infatuation and love.  
  
“So, you just started seeing me recently?”  
  
Draco shook his head.  
  
“That’s the thing. I’ve seen you for over a year now. I love Snape, but… he was wrong.”  
  
Each of them thought back to that wretched night. Draco, in his heart of hearts, truly believed he would kill Dumbledore. Harry, on the other hand, no longer bought it. He raised a hand to stroke Draco’s hair. He nuzzled Harry’s chest, and fell into a sleep that looked angelic.  
  
It would take awhile for Draco to forgive himself. It would take Harry awhile to live with the things he’d seen. For the moment, however, his only desire was to match Draco’s slow, deep breaths, and fall asleep embracing him. This much he accomplished quickly.


End file.
